


A need to compromise

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: And sad wanking, Egyptology, F/M, It's rather compromising, Jealousy, Maybe a litte plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, There's booze
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: 'He did not once bring up their kiss goodbye, and neither did she.'After Miss Fisher's return to Melbourne, Jack is rather at a loss of where this leaves them, if anywhere at all. But he is nothing if not resourceful, and it is about time he took matters into his own...hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the lovely [Sarahtoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo) and [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign%20) for tossing me back onto that smut-fuelled Phrack horse and for forcing me to actually _think_ before I write. And special thanks to Fire_Sign for coming up with Phryne’s attire (I believe her exact words were: _‘Phryne was looking like WHOA.’_ ).
> 
> Also, major kudos to [221A_brina ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina%20) for beta-ing the crap out of my grammatical errors and inconsistencies.

 

Jack let out a heavy sigh as he straightened his bow tie for what must have been the fourth time in under a minute, checking his immaculate appearance in the rear-view mirror of his police-issued vehicle. He was making a fuss over nothing, really. His tuxedo was well-cut, and although slightly worn, it was probably a vast improvement over his ‘blue wool suit and tie’. He was here on official business, providing a service at the Stanley residence. He supposed it would be best for him not to stand out like a sore thumb in tonight’s crowd. She’d been quick to point that out to him early on in their acquaintance, and he’d taken heed of her advice.

Miss Fisher. _Phryne_.

 

***

 

He’d seen her only once since her ship had docked in Melbourne two weeks ago. There’d been a small party at Wardlow, organised by Dr. MacMillan and Mrs. Collins to celebrate her return. He’d been invited and had attended, if only because the good doctor had threatened with some rather colourful and creative ways to make him suffer, should he refuse.

He had been hesitant about attending. After all, it was a rather intimate affair, and although he suspected Miss Fisher considered him a friend, he had no idea if her opinion of him had changed during her time away. He hadn’t gone after her due to a large number of reasons, one being a responsibility to the job, another being unable to overcome his own insecurities, only able to see his own shortcomings. He couldn’t blame her, not really, if she’d found solace in the arms of another man during her four month absence. It would hurt, but staying put in Melbourne had been his decision. She was fully entitled to hers.

A few letters had been exchanged during her time abroad, but he’d experienced great difficulty putting his complicated feelings for her into words, let alone onto paper, and so his letters had remained polite, but rather superficial. He’d enjoyed reading about her adventures, her grumbling about her father and her trips around London. He’d been content with whatever she’d wanted to share with him, if anything at all.

He did not once bring up their kiss goodbye, and neither did she.

He’d remained hesitant all the way up to his ‘policeman’s knock’ at her front door. He’d been unsure of his presence there as Mr. Butler had taken his coat and hat. His breath had caught in his throat when he’d heard her bright peals of laughter, catching a whiff of her perfume before she’d gracefully leapt into his line of vision.

“Inspector!” As though his mere presence was a delightful surprise. “How nice of you to drop by! Mr. B, champagne for the Inspector.”

Even though it had never failed to do curious things to his insides, he’d immediately missed her use of his first name.

As the evening wore on, and the amount of alcohol in her system increased, she’d let his first name slip on a number of occasions and her touches had become more frequent. Jack had not been sure if this had had anything to do with him; she was quite a tactile individual in general. She was friendly, smiling, flirting. He supposed she’d always been flirtatious around him (with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants), but he couldn’t quite figure out if she was being more so that evening, or if everything she did now simply felt amplified to him after...    Well, after that wonderful kiss at the airfield.

He’d reverted back to his old defence-mechanism of quiet contemplation and had retreated into the background, playing the part of the careful observer.

While the others had been dancing – Dr. MacMillan twirling Cec, Mrs. Collins gently whispering to her husband as he held her as close as possible without crushing her pregnant belly, Jane chatting with Mr. Butler, and Bert attempting to persuade a reluctant Prudence Stanley to dance – she’d sauntered up next to him in the doorway, sipping her champagne whilst she eyed him curiously. He’d raised his glass to salute her.

Her silence had unnerved him. Was she keenly observing him, or was she just really drunk?

“I trust that you had a successful trip, and a safe journey home, Miss Fisher?”

“You know me, Jack. I am nothing if not responsible.”

He’d snorted into his whiskey, some of it going up his nose and down his trachea. When she’d politely (and far too innocently) offered to help him clear his airways, he’d declined by taking a large swig of his whiskey and declaring it was time he ought to head on home. Early shift.

 

***

 

Last week’s phone call to the station had not come as a complete surprise. He did not doubt her abilities to weasel her way back into his life in one way or another, but he’d been fairly convinced he’d mucked up any chance of a budding relationship – let alone a friendship – he might have had with her at her welcome home party. He’d acted a right wallflower and had hardly been stellar company.

It turned out his assumptions had been correct when she’d courteously invited him to attend Mrs. Stanley’s Annual Charity Auction. She’d apparently been roped into playing the part of hostess by her aunt. A number of influential people were anticipated to attend, as valuable items were to be auctioned off and Miss Fisher had been of the opinion _interesting_ things were bound to happen on the night of the event.

Which left Jack in his motorcar. Parked at the end of the driveway. He was a bit late, it seemed, as cars were parked everywhere along the long lane up to the residence.

He could just imagine Prudence Stanley, bristling at the utter disorder of it all.

Jack was, as of the present, entirely unsure of where he stood when it came to the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher. It was the reason he was fidgeting with his attire; even though his mind was in turmoil and his heart was in trouble, if he looked put-together, he’d feel he’d won half the battle. A less significant reason was the fact that she always looked impeccable. He was also mindful of not wanting to reflect badly on her, or embarrass her in front of the other guests, especially while on duty.

 

***

  

Exiting his car, Jack began the walk up the driveway. Pebbles crushing together underneath the soles of his polished shoes announced his arrival. It was a pleasant evening, dusk setting in, a nice summery breeze blowing as he approached the Stanley residence, ascending the marble steps leading up to the front door.

He was greeted at the door by a stout-looking man in his fifties, dressed in a long coat, white gloves and a top hat, holding a register of some kind.

“Good evening, sir. Your name, please,” the man rumbled, giving him a scrutinising once-over.

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

The man’s eyes swiftly glanced at what turned out to be the guest list, before addressing him.

“There’s no Robinson on the list, sir.”

“Could you check again, please?” Miss Fisher was always meticulous when it came to such matters. Surely a mistake had been made?

The front door was left slightly ajar, and Jack could hear the buzz of the party. And was that a whiff of salmon on the wind? He’d grabbed a pie from the cart at the station before he’d headed home to freshen up and change, but his stomach informed him that this had already been some time ago.

“I’m sorry sir, but there’s no Robinson here. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the doorman spoke definitively, effectively blocking Jack’s way in.

Jack was just about to open his mouth, reaching for his credentials  when the door swung open, revealing a sight he was not likely to forget any time soon. He had once called one of her many beautiful (if somewhat scandalous) dresses ‘lethal’. He realised he’d been dead wrong. He was positive that just the mere sight of her – right here, right now – had short-circuited his brain.

Her dress wasn’t simply lethal; in that instant, with one look, he had died. And gone to heaven.

Her deep purple dress was held up by slim straps, resting on her elegant shoulders, silk fabric draping in delicate folds over her breasts, pooling into a deep V-neckline. It tapered slightly at the waist, hugging slender but shapely hips, before flaring out into a floor-length skirt. Dark, velvet gloves and a sparkling fascinator complemented her outfit; black teardrop-earrings dangled from her delicate ears.

He thought her long skirt remarkably demure until she turned sideways ever so slightly to address him, revealing a split on the right side of her dress that went up all the way to mid-thigh. Any further and he was sure he could make out the top of her stocking.

His mouth went dry. Bone dry.

 “Jack!” she exclaimed, enraptured and slightly flushed as she stood in the doorway. “You made it.”

In a parallel universe, he might have made a clever quip about not dreaming of ever standing her up (especially if she looked like _that_ ), but he was here on police business. She’d asked him here to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. And so, he would keep things strictly professional.

He’d just have to ignore the fact that her nipples had begun to noticeably pebble underneath the silk fabric of her dress, no doubt due to the late summer breeze.

“Good evening, Miss Fisher.”

She smiled at him before turning her attention towards the doorman.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Oliver?”

The doorman leaned in, acting as though Jack was not there at all.

“His name is not on the list, Miss. Mrs. Stanley’s orders; if you are not on the list, you are not permitted in.”

Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, his met hers as she took in this new piece of information. He knew that look; she was annoyed about something or other. Was it his presence here? Had he somehow been mistaken?

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Oliver. Not to worry, I will see to the matter _personally_ ,” she placated, placing her hand on the man’s elbow – a move Jack was only all too familiar with. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to let the Inspector in, I’d be much obliged,” she smiled, charming the man.

The doorman nodded, keeping a watchful eye on Jack as he stepped aside, allowing him to enter. The front door closed behind them with an audible click. Music could be heard, louder now that he was inside the house, people laughing, talking, glasses clinking. And gods, the food smelled heavenly!

“I’m ever so sorry about that, Jack,” she apologized as she led him into the entrance hall, giving him a spectacular view of her arse and the low cut of the dress on her back. His hands itched with the urge to stroke her soft behind, knowing how those lush globes would fit perfectly inside his palms. Barely realising she was turning around he quickly raised his eyes to hers, but not before she noticed where his gaze had been. She smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling, but decided not to press the matter. A fact for which he was very grateful.

“I hope Mr. Oliver wasn’t unkind? I could go and have a word.”

“It’s not a problem, Miss Fisher. No need to trouble yourself on my behalf.” It really wasn’t, and he didn’t quite understand why all of this appeared to trouble her. Technically, he was not a guest; he was on duty. And besides, he’d had worse welcomes.

“It’s my aunt who’s in trouble,” she muttered under her breath.

Jack tried to figure out what she meant by that, but got sidetracked when she stepped into his personal space, too close for propriety’s sake. The silk hem of her dress brushed his shoes.

“I’m very glad you’re here, Jack.”

“I’m merely following orders, Miss Fisher,” he teased, the words almost getting stuck in his throat as she pressed closer to fidget with his bow tie which he knew, for a fact, had been perfectly straight not two minutes ago. Her perfume was intoxicating.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days, down at the station?” She raised her eyes to his, and he momentarily averted his, before dropping them to her red-waxed lips.

What he wanted to do was to sweep her off her feet and kiss her, to bury one hand in her hair and slide the other one decidedly further south along her bare back to cup her firm arse. Instead, her words sunk in and his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’m afraid I don’t understa—”

“Phryne!” Jack startled, wondering if the sound of Prudence Stanley’s shrill voice would forevermore precede his demise. He made to step back, but she held him firmly in place by his tie, giving it a slight tug; her adamant expression making it very clear he was not going anywhere.

“There you are!” the older woman exclaimed as she eyed the scene before her with mild suspicion, as she tottered into the hallway.

“Inspector. What a...  surprise,” Mrs. Stanley offered by way of greeting. Jack inclined his head in her direction, a polite gesture.

“I was just letting Jack in, Aunt P. He didn’t appear to be on the guest list, which was unfortunate, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, feigning innocence with a distinct undertone of displeasure whilst smoothing down his lapels.

“A slight oversight, I’m sure, Inspector,” Mrs. Stanley bristled.

Jack had to forcefully hold back a chuckle at her sudden discomfort, having been put on the spot by her niece. “To be sure, Mrs. Stanley,” he agreed, smiling at the elderly woman.

Obviously _unsure_ how to deal with her current predicament, she turned to address her niece instead, gently but firmly grabbing her by the upper arm to pull her away from the Inspector.

Miss Fisher appeared annoyed by her aunt’s behaviour, and though Jack could well understand why, he couldn’t say it surprised him. Prudence Stanley had, over time, come to treat him with respect, but she would likely not rest until she had married her niece off to some man with great prestige and wealth.  

“Now Phryne, dear, you _must_ come and meet Henry Herbert, the 6 th Earl of Carnarvon. His father was _the_ Lord Carnarvon. Oh, don’t give me that look girl, of course you remember him; he financed whatever project it was in Egypt, when they discovered that pharaoh. His son is most charming; a true adventurer. And he even brought some Egyptian antiquities for the auction!”

She turned to Jack as she began ushering Phryne towards the hallway leading up to the large ballroom at the other end of the house. “You’ll have to excuse us, Inspector. My niece has certain obligations she is _expected_ to fulfil as hostess. Surely you’ll understand.”

Miss Fisher, however, evidently did not care much for her obligations as she managed to escape her aunt’s ‘clamp of doom’ on her upper arm.

“You go on ahead, Aunt P, I will join you shortly.”

“Phryne, I must _insist_ you—” Prudence called after her niece as she walked back towards Jack, who’d been left standing in the entrance hall.

“Won’t you join us, Jack?”

“In a bit, Miss Fisher. After I take in the surroundings.”

She smiled at his entirely inadvertent double entendre.

“Are you sure you can find your way around?” she asked with mild concern, although there was a teasing lilt to her voice he couldn’t quite grasp.

He tapped his finger to the side of his nose. “Detective.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t forget to try the hors d’oeuvres, Jack. I’ve been told the oysters are divine,” she purred, stroking down the lapels of his jacket one last time. His stomach growled as if on cue. She looked at him, amusement dancing in her bright eyes, prompting one of his own secret half-smiles.

She turned away from him to join her aunt, and as they walked towards the ballroom he had to force himself to keep his eyes on the back of Miss Fisher’s head. It would not do for her aunt to catch him staring at her niece’s derrière, even though he felt it was almost disrespectful not to appreciate her maddening and enchanting beauty for what it was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Herbert actually divorced his wife in 1936 and I am not sure if he ever travelled to Australia, as he became responsible for looking after the family castle as his mother refused him an inheritance when his father passed away. But with his father being, well, THE Lord Carnarvon, I would not have put it past him, had his circumstances been different. Also, I love Egyptology and I just wanted him there, damn it. Literary liberties. I worried for a second that maybe the whole ‘antiquities’ theme would bring back bad memories for Phryne. On the other hand, I am fairly certain she would not allow for the spirit of Foyle to ruin her life even further. 
> 
> I may also have embellished Aunt P’s residence for that same reason – liberties and all that (who knows, maybe she moved when Phryne went away?) – but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the added grandeur.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Scruggzi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi) because she has been waiting.
> 
> Kudos to [221A_brina ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina%20) for putting up with my crap :P
> 
> Also, there will now be 4 chapters, instead of 3. Lord help us.

 

He’d truly meant it when he’d told her he wanted to take in the surroundings.

The _actual_ surroundings.

After Jack had been left standing in the entrance hall all by himself for a second time since his recent arrival, he’d quickly taken stock of the possible escape routes, should anyone mean harm or attempt to leave with stolen goods; assessing the rooms on both the ground and first floor, the windows, the large staircase and the servant’s quarters – insofar as they were accessible to him.

Satisfied that he now had an even better understanding of the grounds than during his previous visits to the residence, he’d joined the party in the large ballroom at the back of the estate.

A crowd of around a hundred people had gathered this evening to attend the auction, although Jack suspected most of them were here for the party, the drinks and the company. He couldn’t blame them; the music was pleasant, and even though some of the songs were a bit too upbeat for the older guests (he suspected Miss Fisher might have had a say in the choice of music), there was no shortage of alcohol and the _food_...

Suffice it to say, Jack had spent an indecent amount of time lingering near the buffet with the hors d’oeuvres, steering clear of the slimy oysters. The salmon had been quite good, though, as had the rabbit, and the duck, and...

He’d once caught Miss Fisher staring at him from across the room, her eyebrow raised in good humour and an unmistakable twinkle in her eye as he’d tucked into another canapé. These people obviously did not know how to enjoy themselves; they’d barely touched the food. And if anything, Jack was never one to turn down a good meal, or waste food.

 

***

 

The grand ballroom was looking even more luxurious and splendorous than he ever remembered seeing it. There was not a speck of dust in sight, and if one had dared to make an appearance, Jack imagined it would have most likely received a severe reprimand from the lady of the house. The crystal chandeliers were shining and shimmering, illuminating the room in a soft warm, intimate glow.

A sparkle of light danced on the rhinestones of Miss Fisher’s fascinator. She didn’t need a glistening accessory to draw attention to herself; she had a magnificent presence all on her own, and a way of commanding the room without trying to as she flitted about from guest to guest.

And that _dress_. He had a hard time keeping his eyes from gluing themselves to her shapely behind. More than once he imagined moulding his palms to her firm buttocks, pressing his fingers into her skin through the silk of her dress, kneading her supple flesh until she would gasp his name. He longed to crush her restless body against his steady one, to breathe her in, bury his nose in the crook of her neck, allowing her to feel what she did to him.

He could feel a faint stirring in his loins as she threw her head back and laughed at a comment one of the guests had made. Baring her elegant, slender throat to his keen eye, to his hungry gaze.

He wanted to trace a path down that graceful column, all the way to her clavicle.

With his tongue.

He flushed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and successfully preventing any embarrassing physical responses from occurring.

 

***

 

She was a marvellous hostess, to be sure. She was in her element here, among the elite. She was thriving, engaging, charming. He found her even more beautiful, knowing she would be just as kind and welcoming to any other person on the street, himself included.

The ‘welcoming’ part was what concerned Jack.

Although she played the part of hostess with finesse, Jack noticed Miss Fisher was quite often at Lord Carnarvon’s side, engaging in conversation with him, being a bit _too welcoming_. Jack wouldn’t have minded as much, if only she didn’t lean in close every now and again to whisper in his Lordship’s ear, her hand on his elbow. What irked Jack even more was the hand of said Lord, which tended to stray from her bare upper back to her lower back, which was ensconced in purple silk.

The fact that she hadn’t stopped the ‘ _gentleman’_ from pawing at her was even worse. Jack felt the foreign but primal urge to throttle the man and take Miss Fisher... well... away from here.

It turned out Lord Henry Herbert of Carnarvon was a recently divorced man, if Jack were to believe the gossiping women attending the Annual Charity Auction. He had been approached by several of them over the course of the first hour; some of them simply introducing themselves in an obvious attempt to make his menial position clear, some merely turning into a giggling mess and one woman who deemed it necessary to voice her opinion on the matter of divorce in an attempt to charm him (which, of course, had failed miserably as Jack had calmly pointed out he was a divorced man himself, causing her to blush profusely and scurry off).

There had been one interesting offer of a _thorough inspection_.

The latter was starting to sound more and more appealing.

He caught Prudence Stanley’s approving gaze as she observed her niece and her new conquest, no doubt patting herself on the back for another example of excellent matchmaking.

Jack grit his teeth.

He grabbed a flute of champagne from the waiter’s tray as it was offered to him, realising this one glass probably cost more than his weekly salary. He generally wasn’t one for drinking while on the job, but he was becoming increasingly unsure as to why he was here. It unnerved him, it annoyed him. It angered him. He hoped the alcohol would fortify him, or at least take the edge off.

 

***

 

The auction turned out to be a rousing success. Jack had lingered near the back of the ballroom as the event took place, observing the crowd for anything unusual. It was his stock and trade to observe, even though by now he was severely doubting why he was here and if it even had anything to do with his job at all. Miss Fisher had not left him any instructions and had not – as of yet – butted in or inveigled her way on to his case as was her custom, and to top it all off, Mrs. Stanley had appeared genuinely surprised at his presence.

But why else would Miss Fisher have asked him to come, if he was indeed not on duty? She obviously had shown no further interest in him, though the evening had been off to a hopeful start. She was constantly in the company of other men, and one man in particular appeared to have caught her eye.

It wasn’t Jack, and it hurt. A lot. A whole lot more than he would have expected.

He could understand the appeal though. Miss Fisher was a woman of the world; well-travelled, a true adventurer in her own right and not one to shy away from the public eye or attention in general. He imagined Lord Carnarvon had a very similar demeanour, what with his father’s occupation, wealth and field of interest.

Lord Carnarvon was everything that Jack was not. He was entertaining, a decent dancer from the looks of it and stellar company. Even Jack could see the irresistible effect the man must have on a woman like Miss Fisher.

He suddenly felt a fool. Had their kiss meant nothing to her? Had she merely been jesting, teasing him to come after her, knowing he wouldn’t? Was she just playing it safe making a wild ‘romantic overture’, knowing he would very likely not take her up on it?

He could do with another glass of champagne. Or maybe a bottle.

Or three.

The stab wound in his back cut just a little bit deeper when Miss Fisher successfully bid extraordinary amounts on both an Egyptian vase, decorated beautifully in hieroglyphics, and some sort of gold token, from what Jack could tell. Both items formerly owned by Lord Carnarvon were now the prized possessions of Miss Fisher.

The vase would no doubt soon grace the hall of Wardlow, taunting him from here on out.

Then again, it would most likely be for the best to sever all connections with Miss Fisher once and for all.

It would hurt, but he could not stand this humiliation and her mixed signals for another second. His heart would bleed profusely, yes, but at least the stab wound would heal over time. Although leaving now felt remarkably spineless somehow, he would walk away with his pride still intact, his back straight and his head held high.

Jack wasn’t the sort of man to lick his wounds in public. He did not like the public eye; he preferred the quiet solitude and sanctity of home.

And that’s exactly where he was going. _Home_.

He did not belong here. Not in this house, surrounded by extraordinary wealth and grandeur, not among these people.

Not at her side, apparently.

 

***

 

As Jack slowly started making his way from the back of the room towards the door leading to the entrance hall, he looked over the gathered crowd one final time as the guests picked partners for another dance. A waltz, this time.

_Slow and close._

Lord Carnarvon approached Miss Fisher, who had been dancing with a lucky, star struck young man, cutting in and asking her for a dance. Judging from the way she tilted her head and swayed her body towards Lord Carnarvon, Jack could tell she was probably interested in more than just a dance.

He really did know her too damn well.

She leaned in to whisper something in Carnarvon’s no doubt _beautifully sculpted_ ear, her hands on his shoulders as Henry’s hand came to rest upon her lower back, close to the delectable derrière that still haunted Jack’s dreams.

He wondered whether it was now a given that men named ‘Henry’ would cause him some kind of trouble or grievance and would come to stand between him and Miss Fisher in one way or another.

Jack was suddenly strongly reminded of the waltz he’d danced with her at the Grand Hotel, some months ago, after the suspected implication of her father in certain dodgy matters. How similar a pair they must’ve looked, he thought, feeling quite melancholy. Even though Jack would never have dreamed of holding her as close as Lord Carnarvon was doing right now, he could still feel the soft pressure of her delicate palm in his callused hand, her natural instinct to take the lead never fully subdued. He’d pushed back, restoring the natural balance between them, meeting her in the middle.

He could still vividly picture the amused smile that had adorned her lovely features as she’d looked into his eyes, accepting his silent challenge. They’d gracefully pushed and pulled, twisted and turned, continuously tipping the scale and challenging the charged equilibrium between them.

He now wished he would have had the courage to take the lead when it came to another matter.

When Carnarvon spun Miss Fisher around, the split of her dress revealed a toned and shapely leg, a porcelain thigh briefly on display, encased in a silk stocking.

Jack swallowed as he stood, woolgathering as suggestive images made their way to the forefront of his mind unbidden, drowning out the music and the buzz around him.

He could imagine himself holding her in a similar fashion, but turning her in his arms and dipping her like he had once seen an Argentinean dancer do with his partner, their pelvises suggestively aligned. It was a daring and sensual move, and although at the time he felt he should have been scandalised by it, he found he’d been intrigued by the idea of using dance as a means of a slow and thorough seduction.

He pictured one of his hands on her lower back to steady her, caressing her bare skin with his thumb just to feel her shiver, the other hand firmly holding onto her naked thigh, her dress baring an almost obscene amount of unblemished skin. He’d boldly slide his hand up, feeling the heat emanating from her womanly core before cupping her delectable buttock, eliciting a soft moan of surprise from her painted lips.

He almost felt the pressure of her leg on his hip as she wrapped it around his waist, pulling herself up to full height and pressing her pelvis into his, brushing her pebbled nipples against his clothed chest. He tightened the hand on her arse, grinding the evidence of his desire against her and she—

Carnarvon’s rich, bellowing laugh snapped Jack right out of his reverie, as though his smouldering flame had been doused by a bucket of ice water.

It was all bitterly unfair; he suddenly had to fight back tears, utterly confused at her behaviour, clenching his fists in anger. Miss Fisher boldly kissed Lord Carnarvon on the cheek, earning her a few quiet gasps from women on the dance floor around them, to which she paid absolutely no mind at all.

Feeling as though he had seen enough, Jack made sure to pick up all the pieces of his broken heart off the floor on his way out.

He bid the stoic doorman a good night as he walked off into the dark, fists once again clenched at his sides.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added another chapter, but this is it, I swear. Maybe.
> 
> Don't hate Phryne, she's a good girl. Well. Most of the time. Sometimes.

 

Phryne was enjoying herself immensely at the party, something she would not have thought possible when she had been preparing for the evening. Nights like these tended to be rather stuffy, especially when hosted by her aunt, but the auction had brought a lively element to the celebration. One could always rely on the wealthy to want to outbid and outshine one another, and tonight had been no exception.

She adored talking to people, flirting with both men and women and _oh_ , the dancing.

But the only person she really wanted to talk to was Jack.

 

***

 

Phryne had felt a distinct air of confusion when she’d noticed his distant behaviour at her welcome home party. She hadn’t expected for him to kiss her in front of all of her loved ones, but she’d anticipated, had hoped for at least, well, _something_. He had seemed stand-offish, and she supposed he simply needed more time to adjust to her sudden return. She knew it would not do well to push him, as she did not want to make him feel (too) uncomfortable.

Still, it gnawed at her.

However, she’d simply refused to feel upset at her own welcome home party, especially since Mac and Dot had gone to great lengths to make the evening a success. Not to mention Mr. Butler’s stellar cooking, Jane’s beautiful flowers and Dot’s delicious cake. She was far too worried about seeming ungrateful, whereas she couldn’t have been more grateful for such a warm welcome back into the comforting fold that was Wardlow.

And Melbourne.

And Jack.

She’d missed him terribly during her time away.

There had been other men. Two, maybe three, but she’d soon realised their well-bred hands were no substitute for his ruggedly handsome ones. Their bright smiles did not warm her heart the way his secret smirks did. Their lips would not convey the passions his had. And their tongues could never speak such truths of love as his could.

A week after her return to Melbourne she’d come to terms with the fact that her feelings for him were _still_ not dissipating. If anything, they appeared to intensify in his absence, and even more so with him in the near vicinity. She’d decided to do what she did best; leap into action. In a final attempt to make her feelings known to him, she’d telephoned the station to invite him to her aunt’s Annual Charity Auction. She had decided that if there ever was going to be a night for things to progress between them, this had to be it. After all, there were plenty of alcoves and rooms for extracurricular activities at her aunt’s residence. She’d even hinted at him when she’d talked to him on the phone. Surely ‘ _interesting things’_ weren’t beyond his comprehension or imagination?

 

***

 

She did not know where she stood with Jack, and this irked her. It made her feel uncomfortable, not being in control, and feeling as though her feet were stuck in quicksand. The invitation had been her move. She supposed the next move – if there was to be one – would have to be his. These were the unwritten rules of their game, the steps to their improvised choreography, the sways of their gravitating waltz.

She wanted Jack. Every fibre of her being craved his intelligent wit, his grounding presence, his reassuring touch.

She did not need him the way she needed the air to breathe, but being with him made the promise of every next breath so much more enticing.

She loved him, more than words could say, which was why she had trouble finding the right ones to convey her emotions.

 _But_ she was also the hostess of the evening, and therefore protocol demanded she mingle with the crowd, which was something she loved to do. She knew for a fact that it was something he disliked. It was a conundrum, really, because she didn’t want to change _for_ Jack, but she also wanted to spend time _with_ Jack.

She’d worn this dress because it made her feel absolutely gorgeous – the flowing material hugging her body in all the right places – although Jack’s potential reaction to it had never been far from her mind when she had put it on.

He had not let her down. The very moment she had clapped eyes on him, looking utterly delectable in his black tie, his gaze dark and intense, her nipples had tightened in sweet anticipation which had absolutely nothing to do with the summery breeze. She’d wondered whether he’d hardened at the sight of her, appearing slightly out of breath himself, and only the presence of Mr. Oliver had stopped her from finding out right then and there.

She’d put on her finest pair of French satin tap pants, loving the way the material felt against her intimate area. She was sure Jack would enjoy them just as much, if not more so, when he took them off. The moment she’d caught his hooded eyes staring at her arse, heat began pooling in the pit of her stomach. Her inner muscles had clenched in response to the intense promise in his eyes, a slick wetness making its presence known between her thighs.

Unfortunately, there was also the matter of Aunt P, whom she loved dearly and whose evening she did not want to ruin by offending her. Well, not too much, anyway. Her dress had already been deemed ‘scandalous’ by her doting aunt (which just so happened to be the look she had been going for). When Prudence had forcibly taken her away from the Inspector, introducing her to Lord Carnarvon, she had been disappointed but anticipated she would get another opportunity to lustfully compromise Jack.

They weren’t on the job, after all.

But as soon as he had appeared in the ballroom, Jack had disappeared into the back, lurking in the shadows, only emerging to either eat or drink. As hostess, she was expected to entertain the many guests and even though disappointment had settled in her gut, she’d plastered on a social smile. As a result, she had been stuck with Lord Carnarvon as her partner for the better part of the evening.

Never one to throw in the towel and ever the one to make the best out of a less than desirable situation, she’d made a herculean effort not to go looking for Jack the moment he disappeared from her sight.

He was a grown man.

 

***

 

Lord Carnarvon was rather a fascinating individual and a great dancer, although a bit dull, if she were honest. She would have much preferred knowing his father when he was younger (and still among the living); a true adventurer _and_ the financial backer of the excavation of pharaoh Tutankhamun’s tomb, to boot. She could just imagine the thrill of it all! But Henry was kind, soft-spoken and sincere. Unlike his father, he had very little interest in Egyptology or antiquities and instead loved to write, which was presumably why he had easily parted with the objects he’d brought for the auction.

Well, all except one.

It was the second of a set of golden tokens, amulets, one of which she had already purchased through the auction, and she wanted that second one. Needed it. Had to have it.

And if she, Phryne Fisher, had want of something...

Prior to the auction, Henry had shown her the second token as they’d stood close, obscuring it from public view. He’d explained the meaning of the two tokens to her. She already knew of their meaning after perusing the list of objects that were to be auctioned off and consulting a befriended European antiquarian, but decided to keep this bit of information to herself. Their meaning was why she’d wanted to buy the amulets in the first place. Well, that, and Jack’s love for numismatics.

She wanted to surprise Jack on this night with a thoughtful gift, an olive branch, as it were. Possibly more than that.

She’d told Carnarvon she would outbid any prospective buyers on the first amulet as long as he would guarantee her ownership of the second.

Henry had asked her for something rather _interesting_ in return, but she’d refused. She was fairly certain there was no way she would be able to give him what he was after, so she’d offered him a waltz instead. A fair compromise. She had by now discovered his love for the waltz, for dancing in general, and he’d agreed.

As long as it was slow and close.

She had no problem with that.

 

***

 

When Henry thanked her for a rather splendid waltz, she smiled. He really was a fine dancer, smooth and gallant, and he had a strong lead. When it came to dancing, she really didn’t mind following a man around, although she still preferred Jack’s lead above all else.

Jack hadn’t been dominant, but his presence had been particularly inescapable when he’d boldly asked her to waltz. The almost electric current that had passed between them as he’d taken her hand in his larger one had made her want to entwine their fingers, as well as their bodies. She’d had to fight the unexplainable urge to lean into him, to find comfort and solace she didn’t even know she’d craved before he took her in his arms.

Jack's movements hadn't been as fluid or as practiced as Lord Carnarvon’s; they had been stoic, serious and almost restrained, so much like the man himself, but the intensity, surety and precision with which they were executed had taken her breath away.

The way he’d committed himself with a single-minded determination to the execution of his steps, to their ongoing waltz, to their partnership, to her... It had made her heart swell with an unfamiliar devotion. It had made her breasts ache, her stomach clench and her cunt throb mercilessly.

She watched Henry walk towards the buffet to get them some refreshments. She thought this would be the perfect time to look for Jack without appearing rude. She had been wanting to talk to him all night. She longed to dance with him, to both lose and find herself in his arms.

Making her way off the dance floor, she looked from one corner of the room to the other, turning around slowly, observing the diminishing crowd (making sure to check the buffet twice for good measure).

She realised he wasn’t there.

_That’s odd. I could have sworn he was here not ten minutes ago._

An acute sensation of disappointment mixed with anxiety washed over her.

There was no need to panic. Perhaps he was merely using the restroom. He would return shortly, she was sure of it. She’d ask him for a dance (and she’d ignore his raised eyebrow at her blatant role reversal), hold him as close as he would allow and afterwards, she would lead him away from the ballroom and finally reacquaint herself with the smell of his skin, the taste of his lips, the assuredness of his touch.

She would have him between her sheets at long last. Her beautiful Detective Inspector.

 

***

 

Roughly seven minutes and 36 seconds had gone by. Henry had been held up at the bar by an exceptionally beautiful woman and she couldn’t find it in herself to mind too much. He was a sweet man, but she had other things to concern herself with at present.

Maybe Jack had nipped out to get some fresh air?

Checking to see if Aunt P had everything under control (and finding her in deep conversation with Baroness Schraeder), Phryne stepped out into the hallway and walked to the entrance hall. Opening the front door, she came upon Mr. Oliver who was still on duty for the evening.

“Good evening, Mr Oliver. Everything going according to schedule?” she asked in greeting.

“Good evening, Miss. Yes, no problems as of yet,” Mr. Oliver replied, addressing her with a kind smile.

“Wonderful! I was wondering if, perhaps, the Detective Inspector has passed this way?” The temperature had dropped quite a bit, and she shivered.

“I believe he did, Miss.”

Her stomach dropped.

“When was this, Mr. Oliver?” She blamed the slight tremble in her voice on the cold, which was quite suddenly seeping into her bones.

“It must have been about...” Mr. Oliver checked his pocket watch, “twenty minutes ago, Miss.”

Her heart sank.

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Oliver.”

“You’re welcome, Miss.”

 

***

 

She closed the front door behind her and determinedly marched back into the entrance hall.

_How dare he?!_

How dare he leave her at her aunt’s Annual Charity Auction without so much as a goodbye, or even a polite wave? Especially after she’d _invited_ him to join her!

Frankly, he’d hardly been stellar company to begin with. And now he’d left her without so much as a word, or a by your leave?  She _knew_ she had been occupied for most of the evening but he could have _at least_ made an effort to be somewhat entertaining, try to mingle with the crowd, get to know the other guests.

_I even bought him those stupid amulets!_

Oh, this was not to be borne.

She didn’t know if she was more upset and close to tears or angry, but she decided not to dwell on the multitude of emotions she was experiencing right now.

Jack had left her. He had walked out on her once before, and she was not going to let him walk away from her ever again.

Not this time. And certainly not without a fight.

There were probably better ways to deal with this. More reasonable ways. More responsible ways. But she was slightly inebriated, and this was supposed to be their one big night, after which she’d hoped many others would follow. She had purposely not dwelled on what this meant in terms of a possible commitment, but she did know she wanted to be with Jack, right now, and in the foreseeable future, for as long as he was willing. For as long as they could make it work.

And she was _determined_ to make it work. Whatever ‘it’ was.

They’d always been good at solving intricate puzzles together.

Resolutely making her way towards the cloak room, Phryne grabbed her black fur stole and black purse. She removed the gold Egyptian tokens from her stocking top - where she had temporarily secreted them after the auction and the waltz, respectively – and secured them in her purse. She had hoped for Jack to discover them after a _thorough_ search of her person, but evidently the night was quickly taking a turn for the worse.

However, perhaps all was not yet lost.

Turning, she made her way back towards the front door, heels clicking loudly on the white marble floor. She had to leave before either Lord Carnarvon or, heaven forbid, Aunt Prudence realised she was missing. She would deal with her aunt later.

Phryne left strict instructions with Mr. Oliver, stating she had to go home because she felt a headache coming on and that _she_ would contact her aunt when she was feeling better. She didn’t know how long all of this would take, but she figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

As she spoke with Mr. Oliver, the knowing twinkle in the older man’s eyes made her feel inexplicably giddy, but also served to further fuel her growing anger.

 

***

 

She turned the Hispano-Suiza onto the main road, and checked the rear-view mirror. Aunt Prudence had just appeared in the doorway of the residence, making Phryne grateful she’d had the foresight to put the top up in anticipation of some possible private sessions with Jack, knowing he would most likely have objected to kissing her in her aunt’s home.

But not even an army of Aunt Prudences could have stopped her now.

She stepped on the gas and the engine roared to life.

She was going to give Jack a piece of her mind, and if time and good fortune permitted, a piece of her heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Herbert appears to have grown up in his father’s shadow. He wrote several memoirs and became responsible for the upkeep of Highclere Castle. I have taken certain liberties when it comes to his character, but I feel he must have been an interesting man.
> 
> Also, Baroness Elsa Schraeder is actually a fictional character from The Sound Of Music, and she is Captain Von Trapp’s love interest. Well, ‘love’ interest. Before Maria comes along, that is. It’s one of my all time favourite movies, and I think her character is wonderful, if very conflicted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have given up on a fixed number of chapters. We'll just have to see where this goes. Updates might not be as regular because, well, life is crazy right now.

 

Jack wasn’t drunk. Not by a long shot. Tipsy, perhaps, but not drunk. However, he intended to remedy that situation as soon as possible.

He slammed the car door, locked the car and walked up the path leading to his Richmond cottage, where he knew a decent amount of whiskey was stashed away for his personal use. Or abuse, as the case would possibly be tonight. He was never one to drink and drive, unless he was called away from home on urgent work-related matters, and on those occasions he preferred Collins or another colleague to pick him up from home.

She’d really gotten to him tonight, had literally driven him to distraction. The drive home had been quick, and he may not have adhered to the speed limit at all times. He would have smiled at the thought of how proud Miss Fisher would be of him, if he weren’t so angry with her.

If he weren’t so angry with himself.

Fumbling with his keys in the dark, he found it and jammed it in the lock of his front door, before realising it was the wrong one when it wouldn’t budge. He cursed under his breath, pulling the key out and locating the _actual_ key. It was a perfect fit; he snorted at the irony as he opened the door and forcefully closed it behind him.

He briefly, but crudely, thought about something else that might have been a perfect fit, but he couldn’t find it within himself to admonish himself for that thought.

Not tonight.

Not when she’d been flaunting herself and that glorious, tight body in front of him like a delicious, extravagant treat he couldn’t wait to wrap his tongue around.

He’d had a taste of her before, and his mouth still watered at the prospect of having an actual bite. But her behaviour tonight had left a bitter aftertaste and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could stomach.

It wasn’t as though she’d never flirted with him. It wasn’t as though she’d never gallivanted around the city, her hand tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow as they solved yet another case. It wasn’t as though she’d never tempted him.

But he thought she’d been sincere in her intentions. In her affections.

 

***

 

He’d attempted to walk away from her, to walk right out of her life; he had failed miserably. No matter the distance he’d created between them, it hadn’t made any difference because she was always near him. She’d gotten under his skin, the mere thought of her made his blood boil with equal parts anger and arousal, and she had made herself quite at home in his heart.

The trust between them had been restored, rebuilt over time as they’d gotten back into the swing of things and back in step, dancing to the beat of their hearts. All the while circling closer and closer, their waltz growing more and more intimate.

Jack had always known his feelings towards her had been intense, constant and persistent. Feelings that were strong, regardless of whatever he’d felt towards her; whether it was anger, love, envy, concern.

Lust.

He’d always been aware of the fact that, had he merely been interested in the pleasures of the flesh, he could have been with her from day one, could have known her intimately already. She’d never stopped him, not really, but once she had realised he wasn’t the sort of man to dabble in dalliances, she refrained from all but throwing herself at him.

Well. For the most part.

But the door had always been left ajar; both hers _and_ his. After her assumed car crash, he’d begun to notice Miss Fisher started returning his sentiments. Peeking around the door. She was often touching him, but now it seemed she was also always _looking_ at him. Jack knew this for a fact, because he was always looking at her as well.

Giving the door a soft nudge.

Miss Fisher had appeared so open, so honest and vulnerable that night she worried about her father. For all his knowledge of Shakespeare, all he had been able to come up with was a terrible metaphor about a telescope that missed the mark by a mile. She’d teased him about it – of course she had – before practically begging him to finish what he’d started.

Pushing the door open wider.

Though brief, the kiss at the airfield had been anything but chaste. Her warm, soft lips had moved enthusiastically against his slightly chapped ones, after making a romantic overture only Phryne Fisher could (literally) get away with. She’d impatiently pushed her tongue inside his mouth, wanting to taste him and giving him a taste of herself in return. Wanting him to know that she wanted this. Wanted _him_.

Kicking the door down and taking names.

Regardless of her feigned nonchalance, he felt the spark in the air between them when she’d spoken those words. He had sensed all of her doubts, all of her insecurities when, for a split-second she became Phryne, just Phryne, momentarily leaving the worldly, extravagant Miss Fisher behind.

_“Come after me, Jack Robinson.”_

And now? Now the door had been shut in his face, locked and bolted from the inside with no way back in.

He was a bloody fool, a blundering idiot.

 

***

 

Tossing the keys into the small dish on the side table in the hallway, he took off his dress shoes and unclipped his socks from their garters, before toeing out of his socks, stuffing them in his shoes and picking them up. Barefoot, he walked into his bedroom, placing his shoes in the wardrobe and removing the garters before shrugging out of his jacket. Hanging the jacket on a hanger, he removed his starched, pristine white waistcoat and placed it in the wardrobe as well.

Even when exhausted, or in this case, angry and utterly confused, Jack still held on to the habits he’d picked up during his service.

‘Fastidious army habits’, Rosie had called them.

He just thought of them as a remnant from his past that still served him well, long after he’d served King and country.

He impatiently removed his cufflinks and set about placing them on the dresser, faltering as he held the silver ornaments in his hand. A belated ‘Christmas in July’ gift. At the time, he’d immediately recognized it for what it had been; it was Miss Fisher’s way of thanking him for helping her, for simply being _there_. He did not delude himself into thinking he’d come to her rescue; she was in no way a damsel in distress, nor did she _need_ his help.

She’d been both surprised and delighted at his unexpected arrival in the Australian Alps.

She’d wanted him there.

And she’d _wanted_ him.

At that point, she couldn’t have made her desires any more clear had she written them across her face in red lipstick. Though by now, Jack figured he could read her expressions so well, there really was no need to taint that beautiful skin.

Then again...

Perhaps he _was_ deluding himself into thinking he knew her well. She’d told him she enjoyed a – what was it she’d called him? – ‘never-ending source of mystery’.

But didn’t birds of a feather flock together?

He both liked and disliked her ability to continuously push and pull him out of his comfort zone. He loved and hated how she faced danger head on in equal measure. He always felt a distinct surge of adrenalin whenever she was able to surprise him, regardless of how the tables would turn.

It turned out that tonight she had surprised him one too many times.

Was what had happened between them simply a farce, a facade, a fanciful pastime to her?!

He opened his dresser sock drawer and all but threw the cufflinks in, slamming it shut before making his way out of the bedroom. Loosening his bow tie, he wandered towards the living room.

As he moved through the unlit hallway, a movement caught his eye. Realizing it was his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he paused, taking it in.

He had not realised he was trembling with barely restrained emotion until he noticed the faint tremor of his hands in the reflection bleakly staring back at him, gripping the silk ends of his bowtie.

He vividly remembered her hands at his tie, recalling numerous occasions when she had made him tremble with a different kind of emotion altogether. She’d had him by the throat, in more ways than one, and it was fine, more than fine, in fact. It was wonderful. He didn’t need air to breathe, not really, because part of him felt ethereal whenever she touched him.

He wanted her with a ferocity that frightened him.

 

***

 

He obviously had misinterpreted her intentions when she invited him to her aunt’s event. There had been no security risk, no case, no... nothing. There had also been very little interest in his person as the evening had worn on.

What else had he misunderstood during their acquaintance?

Had all of those fleeting touches been just that? Quiet reassurances? And what of those lingering looks? The smouldering eyes? Her weight pressing down upon his lap... his lips around her budding nipple, obscured from view by heavy beading.

Had her lips upon his, her scent in his nose, and her tongue in his mouth been a mistake?

A figment of his imagination?

Whatever it had been, it appeared it was over now. Miss Fisher had returned from her voyage and moved on; he was probably flattering himself in thinking there was anything for her to move on from.

Tonight, that point was made abundantly clear by the way she practically draped herself on Lord Carnarvon, hanging on his every word.

She was, by now, most likely hanging on to more than just dear Henry’s _words_ , Jack thought bitterly.

To be fair, he had always known Miss Fisher to be a... _social_ woman. She flirted and flitted her way through life. Though he could never merely be one of her lovers, he could not blame her for bestowing her attentions upon Lord Carnarvon. Not really. After all, he himself had not made any sort of real overture or declaration to her. Hell, he hadn’t made any of his intentions clear. Any attempts had fallen short, or failed, leaving him full of insecurities, and riddled with doubt.

He tried to recall if he had spoken to her since her return.

And what of his intentions? Jack knew he did not wish to pursue another marriage, and knew she felt the same way. He just wanted to _be with her_ , whatever that entailed. To spend time with her outside of their customary drinks after solving a case. To not need an excuse to knock at her door at two in the morning, with any reason other than, “I wanted to see you.” To be able to touch her without restraint, to hold her when she was upset, to—

Perhaps she’d finally come to her senses, realising she could do far better than a lowly cop such as himself.

He had been aware of this fact for quite some time, and it was a rather substantial part of what had thus far been holding him back. He worried that eventually she’d grow tired of him and find someone better looking, exceedingly amusing, perhaps someone in her class.

His greatest fear was that once he was with her, truly with her – knowing what her naked skin looked like when dewy with perspiration, how the ripe scent of her cunt would taste on his tongue, how she sounded when she was brought to the ultimate pinnacle of pleasure – he would lose her to someone else.

A colleague. A _friend_. That’s all he was to her, if that.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat.

He angrily pulled his tie from his neck and uncaringly flung it somewhere along the hallway – breaking his fastidious habit. He sharply pushed the braces from his shoulders, letting them dangle from his waistband. He loosened the top buttons on his shirt and rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows, exposing his broad forearms.

He’d hoped that in removing his ‘suit of armour’ it might give him some kind of relief. That by shedding these layers, he could somehow shed the feelings this evening had brought to the forefront of his mind and his heart.

Raking a furious hand through his hair, he mussed up the neatly pomaded wavy locks before walking into his living room.

He _really_ needed another drink.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be smut. 
> 
> Eventually.
> 
> Maybe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this chapter as well, as it was done (I wrote chapter 4, then figured it was long enough to be two chapters). And I have been known to fidget and edit until eternity and procrastinate posting so here it is, to make up for the previous hiatus. It _may_ (will) take a while for the next instalment, but bear with me please.

 

Jack sat in his favourite leather wingback armchair and stared into the unlit fireplace. It was summer, and although the temperature was pleasant, he felt distinctly cold.

Cold and empty.

His living room was dimly lit, the curtains closed. The floor lamp in the corner cast an intimate, but subdued light over the otherwise darkened room. He had poured himself a decent amount of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around, focusing on the whirlpool his movements created within the confines of the tumbler.

Miss Fisher was like a whirlpool, engendering a veritable vortex of overwhelming and complicated emotions, yet despite that, she was devastatingly tempting. A force of nature – hypnotizing and mesmerizing all in her path, ready to pull under those who failed to pay attention for even a fleeting moment.

Though named for a Greek courtesan, perhaps she was more like a Siren from ancient mythology. Luring him in with her song. Tempting him with tantalizing glimpses. Making him want to lap against her enticing shore.

He licked his lips, in an attempt to wet them even though his mouth had gone quite dry.

And what glimpses had she bestowed upon him tonight. Whether she knowingly did so, or not. It _was_ Miss Fisher, after all, and he’d lay odds that everything the woman did was deliberate.

That _dress_.

It had clung to her body like a second skin, shimmering and revealing, yet deceitfully demure. When she’d stood close to him in the entrance hall, it had taken all of his willpower not to grab fistfuls of the material in his hands, to move the fabric over her skin until the friction of his hands upon her body would cause them both to ignite. As he closed his eyes, he could still smell her perfume and a hint of the underlying scent that was unique to her, feel the ghost of her fingers upon the bowtie he was no longer wearing, and feel her warm breath on his face as she spoke to him.

He couldn’t shake the image of her breasts; pert, dusky nipples straining against the deep purple fabric, practically begging for his touch. Begging to flick them into hardening. To squeeze them until pain would mix with pleasure.

To bite them so that they would redden under his careful ministrations.

And the way her glorious arse had moved beneath the silk... Jack liked to think he wasn’t particularly partial to either breasts or buttocks, but in that dress, the sway of her hips was even more seductive than any Siren’s song.

Had she even been wearing any underthings? With the way her bosom had appeared unbound, and the way the fabric draped across her derrière, he had a sneaking suspicion she might be sans foundation under her dress. Jack had to admit his knowledge of women’s undergarments was limited. Over the past several years he hadn’t been privy to the latest fashion updates when it came to what was known as ‘lingerie’ (discounting, of course, the times he’d inadvertently caught Miss Fisher en dishabille).

He shuddered as he was reminded of the time she’d informed him – adorned in yet another lethal dress – that what usually lurked beneath such dresses was, in fact, lingerie.

 _Usually_.

Implying this was not always the case with her.

Had she been bare beneath the silk?

He’d suspected she had been wearing very little underneath her embroidered black robe on that fateful night when all of his noble intentions appeared to have left him on a whim. Did she make a habit of going out in public sans undergarments, as well?

He was certain she would enjoy the knowledge that she knew something no one else was aware of.

He was sure she got a thrill out of deliberately going against her Aunt’s rules, and the expectations of the high society.

He was positive she would thrive off of the power of surprising an unsuspecting gentleman with her nudity, with her womanly wickedness.

He wondered if _she_ would have been surprised, had he whisked her away from the festivities, and taken her against the nearest flat surface, the way he’d secretly wanted to for the longest time – both as relief and punishment for tormenting him – but had never dared to. Hard and fast, without any kind of sophistication or finesse. That sinful dress bunched around her waist, her long leg wrapped around his hip as he’d slide inside her wonderfully welcoming heat, plunging deeply, relentlessly, holding those desirable globes in his hands.

He could almost feel her breath upon his lips, desperately panting his name in time to his fevered strokes.

He opened his eyes and quickly downed the remaining whiskey in one large gulp. It left a burning trail, a soothing sting as he swallowed, savouring the tingling aftertaste on his tongue.

He shifted in his seat.

He could feel the heat begin to bubble up inside him, pleasantly pooling deep and low in his gut. Simmering sinfully below the surface, moving slowly, but surely, like thick molasses. Hot like lava, and just as undeniably devastating and destructive.

He was utterly, completely and hopelessly in love.

The obvious rejection stung.

The blatant refusal stung.

His body, however, was willing to look past all of these blows to his emotional welfare and focus solely on the way she’d looked tonight.

And on every other night. Or day.

The final conscious image floating through his mind was of himself, removing her dress with his teeth as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

 

*** 

 

His cock was painfully hard as it lay, pulsating in the crease between her dripping cunt and her inner thigh, leaving wet marks on her unblemished skin. The thick, dark curly hair at the juncture of her thighs tickled his aroused interest, and every time she shifted his eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets. His left hand was covering her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the cries and moans of surprise his right hand was causing her. The leg that was wrapped around his waist clenched almost painfully as she pulled him impossibly closer, forcing the three fingers he had inside of her even deeper into her soaking heat.

Her moan was deep and positively filthy, and he bit her shoulder in fierce reprimand. Hardly ever the submissive one, she nipped at his hand in quiet retribution. He soothed her skin with his tongue; he couldn’t get enough of the taste of her. Perhaps he was drunk after all; intoxicated by the flavour of her skin, dewy with perspiration, inebriated by the scent of her arousal filling his nostrils, overcome by the sounds she made.

Her back was pressed up against the bookcase, the shelves presumably uncomfortably digging into her bare skin but she did not complain. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was sweating, still fully dressed in his suit and tie, save for his unbuttoned fly and his exposed, rigid manhood which she was stroking with startling precision. He was doing his damnedest to distract her, in order not to prematurely spill all over her dress.

Her silk, purple dress.

She was still wearing it, even though he had insisted on taking it off as soon as they’d shut the door of the library behind them. But she’d refused him the sight of her bare breasts, claiming someone could walk in at any moment. He was of the opinion this was hardly an excuse, coming from her, as he was positive she was getting a thrill out of this illicit fumble and the possibility of being discovered. 

His cock was out, for Christ’s sake.

He also suspected she simply enjoyed tormenting him by denying him the opportunity to tease her nipples the way he wanted to, knowing he loved and hated that dress in equal measure.

A debauched, depraved part of him longed to both mar and mark the perfect fabric with a stain of his arousal.

He couldn’t exactly recall how they’d wound up here, in a dark secluded corner of the library at the Stanley residence. He distinctly remembered dancing, holding her in his arms, following the ‘rules and regulations’ of propriety, of a gentleman holding a lady.

He was holding her in his arms right now, and there was nothing proper about it.

There had been no teasing, no holding back, no courteous gestures as she’d pulled him into the library by his tie and shortly thereafter, his suspicions about her lack of undergarments had been confirmed in the most pleasurable of ways.

His fingers curled inside of her, making a ‘come hither’ motion, stroking that sweet yet sometimes elusive spot which made her shudder and moan.

Her muscles clenched sharply around his invading digits and he could feel her getting even wetter, her own secretions starting to seep out of her cunt and onto his weeping arousal. He clenched his teeth as she smeared his sticky precum over his circumcised glans. Her almost demanding touches were divine, yet felt comfortingly familiar. Breathing heavily against her neck, he nipped at her sensitive, damp skin, as she cursed him over and over again.

_Damn you._

_Fuck you._

_Love you._

He smothered a groan in the delicate hollow of her throat on a particular vicious, unfocused twist when he circled her hooded clit and pressed down on it with this thumb. Her vision blurred, eyes glazing over as he involuntarily bucked his hips against her. She was close, so close. He pistoned his fingers inside of her with a vengeance until she panted in his ear. Hastily removing his fingers from her most intimate parts, he guided his cock to her entrance, spreading her essence onto his manhood as he stroked himself, his cockhead grazing her sensitive bundle of nerves as he covered himself in her wetness.

He hissed in utter delight, the friction almost too much to bear as he grasped her hip in his large hand – his fingertips teasing the silk of her dress still covering her arse – using the other hand to align himself with her opening, the tip of his penis easily sliding inside of her.

He moaned.

“Yes, Jack! _Please_ , now.” Her voice was raspy, wet, and velvety, stroking him all the way down to his rigid length.  
  
He looked at her to find her completely undone; eyes closed, breathing heavily, her mouth hanging open. She had been reduced to nothing but sensation. He had done that to her, and the knowledge made him impossibly harder. To hear her _pleading_ for him, Jack Robinson, to merge their bodies, was nearly enough to completely undo him.

_“Phryne...”_

 

_Gasp!_

 

***

 

“Phryne...”

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes to the sound of a surprised gasp that he realised that he had, in fact, been dreaming.

He had also, as it turned out, been moaning her name in his sleep.

His traitorous right hand had strayed downwards. This discovery immediately caused him the most grief.

As he looked up, he quickly became aware of two more things.

One: Miss Fisher was standing in his living room, her perfect red lips forming an ‘O’ in what he surmised was disgust. Still clad in that damnable dress she stared at him, eyes wide and hooded. Her chest heaved as she took her next breath, moving the fur stole up and down, looking remarkably close to losing her composure.

How long had she been standing there?

And was that his _bowtie_ in her hand?

Two: his hand was _inside_ of his smalls – his trousers unbuttoned, fly open, the tie of his smalls undone – stroking his clearly and embarrassingly erect cock. His hand was fisted round his turgid flesh inside his underwear, skin hot to the touch. He paused mid-pull as the state of his compromising situation finally caught up with his fatigued brain.

A heated moment passed between them, as though they had reached an impasse when playing draughts. Eyes locked and were filled with both doubt and a surge of sudden longing neither of them could quite understand, nor deny. They seemed uncharacteristically unsure of who was supposed to make the next move, whose turn it was in this dance they danced.

Miss Fisher blinked, squeezing his tie in her hand and sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. Jack watched, mesmerized, as if hypnotized by the contrast between her red lipstick and those perfectly straight, pearly whites. His cock twitched against his palm.

Outside, a cat screeched and the unexpected sound broke the spell, causing Jack to leap into action.

He managed to hastily rise from the chair, almost tipping over as he jerked his hand from his trousers, which were now riding dangerously low on his hips. His groggy and mortified mind a complete blank, unable to provide any sort of explanation to the previous goings-on.

He barely had the time to open his mouth before Miss Fisher dropped her purse on the floor and all but flung herself at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> Okay so maybe not.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I UPDATED. Wow. It's been a while, but with my beta at con and real life getting in the way things got held up. But here it is, chapter 6 out of 3. (I did a drawing of NP in the meantime, so if anyone cares to see that, it's up on my profile page.) 
> 
> Again, special thanks to my wonderful beta [221A_brina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina) whom I keep calling 'aubrina', because apparently I can't read and this is probably also the reason why I need a beta in the first place.
> 
> And thank you all for being patient with me. I hope I'll be able to update sooner on future chapters.

 

On her drive over to Richmond, Phryne had come up with numerous scenarios of what she might possibly come across when arriving at Jack’s home, making sure she was prepared to state her case whatever the outcome may be.

Although she was of the opinion that she knew Jack well, she could never be quite sure what was going through his mind if he chose to raise his defences and put on his impenetrable armour. The latter was forged in rules, beat into shape by regulations and held together by his notion of nobility. It was difficult to break through it at times, though every piece of armour had a soft spot, an Achilles heel.

She just had to find his. She somehow doubted a lavish meal was going to be of much help in this particular instance.

Phryne didn’t know where she stood with Jack or how he felt about her, though the spark between them did not seem to be diminished, if tonight’s greeting at the door had been any indication. The way he’d looked at her made her feel as though he was about to eat her alive, and if anything, Jack was always _very thorough_ when it came to devouring his food.

She certainly wouldn’t mind being his next big meal.

Her gloved hands clutched the steering wheel tighter as she drove up to his cottage, her skin tingling pleasantly at the recollection of his heated gaze.

He had quite suddenly – well, to her it had been – all but disappeared from tonight’s soiree. Though she knew he preferred for her to take the lead when it came to all things extravagant and dramatic, she would have much preferred a duet.

Had he, perhaps, changed his mind about the two of them while she had been away? Was that why he was acting distant, almost aloof?

She knew there was still _something_ between them, but then again, there always had been. Hadn’t there? Jack had started out as a way in on classified information, and although she could, she wouldn’t deny that she had been physically attracted to him from the start. But as time went on, his aversion to her presence – even though she doubted he had ever truly been adverse and had merely been practicing his acting skills – had turned into silent acceptance. The drinks had turned into dinners, their small talk had evolved into long, meaningful and, on occasion, intimate conversations.

Jack had weaselled his way in and managed to slip under her skin without even meaning or trying to. He wasn’t the calculating sort when it came to friendships, but if he decided he liked you, cared for you, he would make sure you knew and would go to great lengths – often disguised as small gestures – to be a steady support system, a confidante. A friend.

Phryne considered Jack to be among her closest friends, and had done so for a while now. Although at some point, she had started to long for more from him. She desired him sexually, of course, but it was more than that. She’d desired other men, but she had never waited for a man as long as she had been waiting for Jack.

Not that she had been sitting idly by until the day he would proclaim his desires to be with her, but when she’d invited him over for dinner she had known she felt something beyond just a fleeting interest.

She felt a deep connection when it came to Jack that had nothing to do with the physical.

She appreciated how he always treated her as an equal. His dislike towards some of the things she did having everything to do with her as a person and nothing with her being a woman. The way he was a gentleman, opening doors for her, yet never assuming she couldn't do so herself if she so desired. She adored his clever wit, his sharp barbs, the way he would blush and fluster, to the red tips of his ears, when she said something that embarrassed him. She admired his strength, both physical and mental, his brilliant insights, intelligence, discipline and dedication when it came to his job. She recognized his never-ending thirst for knowledge, his drive and his belief in what was right.

She desired the scent of his sweaty skin as it mingled with hers, heady and pungent, his cheek as it would lay upon her naked breast, his dewy lips on her ear as they whispered words of both devotion and obscenity, the weight of his warm body as it pressed hers down into the soft, damp sheets, the stretch of his manhood as he slowly pushed his way inside of her, not looking anywhere but into her eyes and not stopping until they were one.

And then there had been Concetta.

The thought that Jack could have possibly met another woman and was no longer interested in her made her heart clench painfully and unexpectedly.

Was he was merely allowing for the spark that had always been between them to remain, whilst moving on and away from her to be with someone else?

 

***

 

She had not actually _seen_ him leave the soiree this evening. She imagined he might have a number of reasons as to why he left.  Those reasons might not be rational or fair in her eyes, but she imagined he would justify and defend each of them nonetheless. She shook her head in frustration. He could be terribly obtuse at times.

A modest smile found its way to her perfectly red-waxed lips. She supposed that was another part of the reason why she was drawn to him. At times it frightened her to notice her own stubbornness mirrored in his behaviour, other times it comforted her to know he would inevitably find a way to understand why she did the things she did, even though he oft times disagreed.

Neither had so far been willing to give up on what each believed in, and it was simultaneously and paradoxically a trait they admired in the other; their willingness to fight for what they thought was right, to, sometimes literally, stick to their guns, and not change for anyone.

Perhaps a compromise was in order? And if so, she had no idea how to achieve it. Insofar as she gathered, Jack would desire some kind of commitment, and she desired freedom.

She wanted him to be there. He had left.

She snorted. Perhaps Jack wasn't the only one who wanted some kind of commitment, after all.

Wasn’t that ironic?

But the point remained; he had left her, and she was not going to stand for it.

She parked the Hispano on the side of the road near his home, grabbed her purse and got out of the car with as much grace as she could muster, being both slightly tipsy and quite angry.

She could work out that ‘compromise thing’ later.

 

***

 

Approaching the front door she noted the curtains were drawn and the house did not appear very welcoming. It seemed locked up tight, and she surmised that the state of the house was an accurate representation of Jack’s current state of mind.

She cringed ever so slightly. This did not bode well.

She didn’t think she would be able to cope with another goodbye from Jack as he walked out of her life, presumably permanently this time.

Phryne had known for a while now where Jack lived, but had never before visited, feeling as though it would be an intrusion somehow. She knew he valued his privacy, his alone time, his shelter away from the cruelty he was forced to face every day on the job. She didn’t want to take that away from him, not unless there was an emergency.

She supposed this was an emergency.

For some reason, though, she had always imagined his Richmond cottage looking warm and welcoming. Granted, night had fallen and it was dark; the temperature was still rather pleasant and summer was in the air. However, the house exuded a coldness she found to be rather daunting.

Rather than knocking at the door, she opted not to take any chances and rummaged around in her purse to try and locate her lock picks. Jack could refuse her at the door, and then where would that leave them? She wanted to clear the air, and if that meant breaking into his house and leaving him no choice but to address the matter, then so be it.

Unable to locate her picks, she then tried the door, assuming she’d find it locked. On turning the knob, she felt the door give way with a slight push. Her face scrunched up in surprise.

 _This_ from the man who had told her to lock her door because he had deemed it ‘too great a risk’?

She was about to snort at the hypocrisy of her Inspector when she started. Jack would _never_ leave his front door unlocked at night. He didn’t live in the slums, per se, but Phryne had visited better neighbourhoods during her lifetime. Leaving a door unlocked was a bad idea, regardless of the location of the property.

Had something happened to him? Had someone broken into his home? Was this retribution for one of his solved cases?

Her heart began to beat erratically.

She stealthily opened the door all the way – cursing the fact that she had failed to secure her dagger into her stocking top tonight. She’d assumed Jack might find the discovery of a weapon on her person a little off-putting, so she’d opted to leave it on her vanity.

 _“Always be prepared, Phryne_ ,” her mother had often told her, though she suspected her mother had meant something more along the lines of ‘wear the right dress’ or ‘make sure to always look presentable.’ Not ‘stick a dagger in your garter, just in case.’

To be fair, she _had_ come fully prepared tonight, on all fronts, but apparently not for the right occasion.

She rolled her eyes at her own foolishness.

The door closed with a soft _click_.

 

***

 

Jack’s house wasn’t large by any means from what Phryne could tell as she stood in the small unlit hallway. To her right was a coat rack, and the sight of his slate grey overcoat and the fedora she’d bought him warmed her heart. He hadn’t worn either item tonight. Every time she’d seen him in anything other than his customary garb, she felt as though she was seeing a different side of Jack.

To her left was what appeared to be a small study, and although her curious nature was dying to find out what interesting tomes and other fascinating titbits he stored away in there, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

The house smelled of fresh flowers, which she located in a vase on the kitchen table at the end of the straight hallway. He did love gardening, her Jack. ( _Her_ Jack?) On the right side there were two more doors; she guessed one must lead to the bedroom, the other to the bathroom, assuming Jack had the luxury of indoor plumbing. A little further down the hall to her left there was an open doorway leading into what must be the living room.

She would have loved nothing more than to explore the cottage, breathing in the smell of Jack, discovering photographs and stories yet untold, but now was not the time. She quietly made her way down the hallway when she spotted something on the floor. As she bent her knees to pick up the item, she started.

She could have sworn she’d heard a grunt.

Swiftly standing up, she looked at the fabric now clutched tightly in her right hand. It was silk, and smooth, and—

Was this his _bowtie_?

She distinctly and rather vividly remembered touching it mere hours ago. Jack was a tidy man, almost fastidiously so. Why would he leave this on the floor of his hallway?

Or perhaps he’d left a trail of clues? Maybe someone else was, in fact, in the house with them? What if they’d taken Jack, or God forbid, what if they had taken him hostage? Images of Jane and Foyle flashed through her mind. And what if—

_That’s quite enough of that. Pull yourself together!_

She took a deep, steadying breath. Right. She could do this.

Listening carefully, she crept closer to the doorway. She recognized Jack’s deep voice, moaning and thrashing softly.

Maybe they’d captured him, tied him up? Maybe he was being tortured?

She was rather hoping the element of surprise would catch the assumed perpetrator off-guard so she could pounce, and then use the bowtie to either secure their hands as she worked said person to the ground, or worst-case scenario; to cut off their oxygen flow.

Taking another deep breath, she stepped into the doorway, a familiar rush of adrenalin making the blood pound through her veins, thrumming in her ears, her heart beating a steady but fast rhythm against her ribcage.

She quickly took in her surroundings, then froze on the spot.

 


End file.
